


Break a Few Eggs

by bosspigeon



Series: A Dangerous Woman [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Deathclaws, Drug Use, Other, Quarry Junction (Fallout: New Vegas), Sloan (Fallout: New Vegas), danger has shit luck, gratuitous southern twanging, i know nothing about guns beyond what video games tell me, not too bad but still, those omelettes better be fucking worth it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9073177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosspigeon/pseuds/bosspigeon
Summary: The Courier gets much more than she bargained for clearing out Quarry Junction for Sloan's miners-- and she bargained for a hell of a lot, considering she was going toe to toe with a whole mess of deathclaws.





	1. Chapter 1

Her run through Sloan is mostly an accident, seeing as her truck decided to throw a bit of a hissy fit after climbin’ the dusty hills that hemmed in Goodsprings. The battered old thing starts rattling and choking somethin’ fierce, and rolls to a coughing stop just outside the gates of the little cluster of shacks outside the quarry.

An old man calls out to her as she hops out the back and heads ‘round to the front, a wooden Sunset Sarsaparilla crate tucked under one arm. “Hope you’re not heading north,” he says, eyeballing her ugly green truck. She tosses the crate onto the ground and steps up onto it, popping the hood and peering inside.

She glances sideways at him when he comes up to see what she’s doing. “That was the plan,” she mutters, chewing on the filter of an unlit cigarette. He harrumphs, and she turns back to the jury-rigged engine smoking away in front of her.

“The whole quarry’s overrun with deathclaws,” he tells her as she pokes around, getting grease all over her hands. “Moved in after those Powder Gangers came through and made off with all our dynamite.”

Danger hums thoughtfully, stepping off her makeshift stool and wiping her greasy hands on the rough canvas of her trousers. She rounds her truck again and swings the back door wide open, and beckons the old man to follow. She climbs inside, and he hoists himself up after her with a bit of a grunt. Seems he likes the decor, ‘cause he looks a little impressed, especially with the neat line of well-oiled rifles on her gun rack. She nods him towards the table while she gives her hands a quick scrub-down in the sink, then sloshes the coffee pot to see what’s left. She pours two chipped mugs about half-full, and holds up a bottle of whiskey like a question.

The old man nods, and she splashes a bit into either mug. She sits down, offers him a smoke and he asks her name. “Danger,” she says after a slow sip of lukewarm spiked coffee. His bushy brows go up, but he doesn’t ask. “You?”

“The name’s Chomps Lewis. I’m the foreman ‘round these parts. Though I ain’t the foreman of much since we can’t do any work with those damn lizards roaming about.” He sighs, takes a sip of his own drink. He looks plain wore out, like he’s aged ten years in the last week alone.

“Sounds like ya’ll could use some help,” she offers, peering over her mug.  
Chomps looks at her, then towards her gun rack, then back to her again. “Normally I’d tell you not to risk it, but you seem like you can handle yourself alright.”

She takes the job, of course. She can’t not, knowing it could save lives. Plus, she ain’t got nothing better to do while she waits for Ed-E to bring Raul and the parts she needs to fix her truck, and who knows how long that could take, with the little Eyebot making the trip all the way to the Strip and back with an arthritic ghoul in tow. She’s got time to kill, and she was never much for sittin’ around with her thumb up her ass while good people suffer.

So she loads up on ammo, grabs a couple stealth boys, and stuffs a couple cans of cram and some water into her pack. She locks up her truck, then chats with some of the other workers around Sloan, get a better picture of what she’s dealing with. The consensus is pretty much the same-- get rid of the alpha and the matriarch, and the others would follow. Nothing she didn’t already know, but it don’t hurt to check.

While she’s ambling around, she hears tell of a busted generator too, and apparently there’s a tame molerat skittering about what’s got a bum leg. Like most injured critters, he’s hiding away to lick his wounds, and Danger don’t have the time to hunt him down just yet. She stops by the mess hall, and the girl there (cute and perky, in spite of the drab surroundings), tells her she’s got a recipe for a deathclaw egg omelette. Maybe Danger’s just used to eating strange things, but it sounds like good eats to her. She promises to bring back an egg or two, if she finds any. One ought to be enough for a whole mess of things, sheer size considering.  
At any rate, she’s wasting daylight on small talk, and she’s still got a deathclaw nest to root, so with a final word to Chomps, she sets off for the quarry. Rubs herself with dirt and plants along the way, makes herself smell less like sweaty, walking meat and more like their natural surroundings, then pops a stealth boy and checks the wind.

Deathclaws got good noses on 'em, even better ears, but Danger’s seen half-dead molerats with better eyesight. A stealth boy wouldn’t fool every critter out there for too long, but, so long as you mask your scent and don’t make too much noise, a bit of a shimmer will go mostly unnoticed by the big lizards.

She slinks past three of ‘em going in-- and a couple decaying human bodies too-- all fairly young, if the size is any tell. She doesn’t spot the alpha or the matriarch right away, but that’s no surprise. Mama’s probably in her nest, Papa not far away. There’s plenty of adults and adolescents to sound the alarm if something’s amiss, and Danger can’t help but wonder where a pack this size even came from, to have so many near-grown ‘claws.

The quarry is a mess, probably wasn’t too much prettier before the new tenants moved in, all piles of rocks and dirt and centuries-old mining equipment. Some of it still looks functional, or close to it, but a lot of it’s been almost buried by time and recent work. Still, the main collection tower looks sturdy enough, and there’s a handy ramp leading up to the top. She slings her rifle over her back, makes a beeline for the ramp, and starts the climb. It’s a bit creaky, and every now and then she has to pause and make sure the deathclaws ain’t taking notice of the noise, but after just a few minutes of creeping along, she makes it to the top of the ramp. After that, it’s just a bit more effort to find decent handholds to pull herself onto the roof.

The corrugated metal is warm under her fingers, palms protected by the thick leather of her gloves. The tower is rusty, but still stable, doesn’t sway even a bit under the extra weight. She lays out her supplies on a wore-out strip of terrycloth, different types of ammo, scope and suppressor, rations and water. This high above the ground, the wind won’t carry her scent to them, they can’t see her, and with the silencer on, they won’t be able to figure out where the bullets are coming from until it’s too late. She sticks her scope and suppressor to her trusty huntin’ rifle and gets comfy. Boone likes to lie down while he snipes, but she’s more of a sit-down type, one foot braced on the slope of the roof, the other bent to the side. She cradles her rifle and peers through the scope so she can adjust it, scans the area, takes a quick swig of her water.

And then, she's ready.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She supposes it was her fault for thinkin' it'd be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter! there's animal death, and some descriptions of blood and gore, etc. there's also drug use in this chapter! uuuh, that's about it, i think? lmk if i missed anything!

Aim, breathe deep, squeeze the trigger.

The first deathclaw goes down, a spray of blood spouting from the softest part of its throat. Just as she expected, this draws the attention of the others, scurryin’ in to crowd the body of their downed packmate, sniffing and prodding and scenting the air, looking for the unseen threat.

One of ‘em raises its head high, tongue out tasting the air, and she puts a bullet in its chin. It comes out messy through the top of its skull.  _ Numero dos _ .

Deathclaws are smart, though, she ain’t forgot that. She only gets one more down in the same style before they scatter, leaving their dead and checkin’ their defenses. She targets the grown ‘claws, puts the fear of God into the young’uns. Once she takes down the alpha pair, the juveniles and the babies will be easy enough to chase out with a few explosions and loud noises. They’re deadly enough on their own, so most of ‘em have a half-decent shot at survival. She should probably kill ‘em all, just for safety’s sake, but she’s a bit soft-hearted when it comes to animals, no matter how dangerous. So long as they ain’t close to people, they got just as much right to live as any other critter.

_ Three, four, five _ \-- she pops ‘em one by one, takes sips of water in between. The sun’s hot overhead, but she’s got shade enough under the wide brim of her hat. She takes a break after the fifth one, roots around in her pack for some sun-dried prickly pear to crunch on while the ‘claws regroup. The rooftop’s getting hotter, she’s gotta be mindful of where she puts her fingers now, but the thick canvas of her pants keeps her legs from burnin’ up. A bit of sweat trickles down the back of her neck, slips down the crease of her spine and she feels it tickle uncomfortably all the way down to her crack. The wind blows dust across the canyon walls, and she pulls her scarf up over her mouth again, still chewing.

She takes up her rifle again, and guns down two more ‘claws. The first is a clean through-and-through, shot through the eye. The second takes three bullets (she grumbles about the waste-- .308 caliber hollowpoints are tough to find and fuckin’  _ expensive _ ) because it turns sharper than she thought it would, takes the first one to the tough part of its neck rather than the softer throat. It penetrates, but just barely, and the deathclaw roars, turning wildly to figure out where the pain came from. The second dings off its horn (another waste, another grumbled curse), and the third strikes home in its chest, clean through the heart.

The young’uns are in a tizzy, with their guardians droppin’ like flies. Shouldn’t be too long before-- ah, and there she is, the big mama herself. She comes snuffin’ and snarlin’ out of her burrow, and right behind her are five or six little hatchlings, probably only a few months old. They crowd around her legs, chirping and nipping and huddling under her feet. The mama’s big, with yellow streaks on her flank and scars on her ugly face denoting her age and experience. She swings her big ol’ head back and forth, beady little eyes peering around for the trouble, and she goes clompin’ around, sniffing bodies and making rough, guttural barking noises to gather the remains of her pack.

She’s slow, but sturdy. It’ll probably take more than one bullet to topple a ‘claw that big, ‘specially with her cleverly keeping her body low-- protecting the softest bits of herself from harm. Danger switches out her hollowpoints for armor-piercing rounds. Less damage, but more penetration, especially useful against something with a hide as tough as a deathclaw. She’s taking a minute to strategize, figure the best place to plant lead to drop the hefty mama, when the alpha comes charging out of cover. He’s big too, but not near as big the matriarch herself, with tall, sweeping horns and a dark hide streaked with rusty red. The colors scream danger (heh), but she ain’t afraid.

He’s not as smart as the wizened old matriarch, it seems, stretching himself high to see over the others and baring his soft pale throat, but he’s a bit quicker, and more adventurous. He scrabbles on top of an overturned bulldozer and rears back, and her heart near freezes in her chest when his pale eyes meet hers.

A bullet rips through his throat just as he’s soundin’ the alarm, the start of a bark cut short with a gurgle, but he’s not dead yet, not with the comparatively weak punch of armor-piercing rounds. Takes two more to the gut to drop him, and he topples off the bulldozer, landing in a crumpled heap on the hard-packed dirt. Danger’s gotta hurry to reload, because the mama, clever as she is, has pinpointed her location atop the collection tower from the short warning her mate gave before Danger could silence him, and she’s makin’ the charge. She clears the ramp’s railing in one go, and bellows as she thunders up the ramp proper.

Danger tries to keep her hands from shaking as she reloads, but it takes some doin’, and it’s hard to find her calm when an angry two-ton lizard is barrelling towards her.

There’s a sudden scream of metal that pierces her eardrums, and startled as she is, Danger knocks one of her ammo boxes and her bottle of water off the roof. She can’t even be bothered to watch them fall, it’s too late to worry about now, so she looks towards the ramp. It’s dented under the weight of the matriarch, and the screech that spooked her is the rusted metal giving way. Where Danger’s own lanky frame had hardly disturbed it, the angry deathclaw roarin’ up the ramp was more than it could handle. It detaches from the tower in a screaming crash of steel and rust, and the mama deathclaw hits the dusty quarry floor with a thud fit to shake the red mountains down. She’s still for a long while, and Danger prays in time with the wild poundin’ of her heart that the fall killed her dead.

Of course, Danger could never be so lucky.

The matriarch lurches to her feet with a rumble like distant thunder, shakes dust from her scales. She’s favoring her hind leg just a bit, but she wastes no time in targeting the tower again. The ramp may be torn loose, and after that fall she won’t be keen to try the others, but there’s still the sturdy belt that carries stone up through the tower itself. She clambers on, gingerly testing how it takes her weight. Given that it’s meant to haul thousands of pounds of stone, it holds well enough, and she begins her slow, determined climb. Her eyes are fair burnin’ on Danger’s, and she digs out a quick dose of Steady and takes a long, deep huff to keep her nerves from janglin’ all over the place.

She could make a jump for it, but the juveniles would no doubt swarm, and she wouldn’t stand a chance, seein’ as a fall from this height had a real big chance of snappin’ both her legs like twigs. Her best bet is takin’ potshots at the mama and hoping she can kill her, or at least weaken her, before she reaches the top.

The first shot glances off the matriarch’s cheek, tears loose a scale or two, but otherwise doesn’t slow her down. She aims for the shoulder next, armor piercing rounds this time, and it digs into the muscle and lodges there, and slows her ascent just a tad. But the big mama’s pissed now, wounded, roarin’ to avenge her fallen mate and family, and Danger’s the only thing she’s focused on right now. Even with the hit of Steady, she don’t trust herself to hit the ‘claw in the eye, so she just keeps peppering her solid hide. Blood bursts from the hard scales like cactus flowers in peak spring, but the deathclaw doesn’t slow down, and it’s not long before she’s reached the top.

The roof is blazing hot now, and Danger burns her fingertips scrabbling for the edge to keep from slipping over. She grabs her sawed-off shotgun and fires a few good rounds into the matriarch’s face, and it serves to knock her skidding back, gives Danger just enough time to dig out a stick of dynamite from her pack. She’s fumbling with her lighter when the claws catch her leg, shredding through the canvas and leather and tearing into her thigh. She shouts, bites her lip to stifle it, and kicks the deathclaw in the face to stall while she lights the dynamite. She feels the hot, wet breath all the way up to her elbow as she shoves the stick into that gaping, bloody maw, and one more solid kick sends the massive mother ‘claw toppling off the tin roof and plummeting to the ground. This time, she’s close enough to the tower supports that Danger feels the whole thing wobble, but she ain’t got time to worry about that now, not when she’s prayin’ under her breath and--

The dynamite goes off with a boom that echoes all around the quarry’s walls, and it takes the matriarch’s head with it, leaving a pulpy mess of gore and a twitching, limp body behind. The explosion startles what’s left of the pack, the little’uns making a break from the quarry’s entrance en masse. Danger heaves a ragged sigh, flopping back against the hot roof. It burns her back through the gaps between her leather armor. It’s hard to hold herself up on the slope with one leg, the other trickling blood that drips and sizzles onto the hot metal. She’s gotta stop the bleeding. She’d rather not bleed out on a hot rooftop and be picked apart by crows, so she pushes herself upright and digs out a stimpack, shoving it into her leg and pushin’ the plunger down hard. She has to cut away the leather and canvas sticking to her skin, and she dumps her second bottle of water over the wound to clean it out. It’s three long, deep scores down her thigh, shredded skin and muscle right down to the bone.

She’s already dizzy, feels bile in the back of her throat, but she swallows it down, works as quick as she can. The Steady keeps her grounded, keeps her head on straight enough to focus, and she hauls her bag closer so she can root through it for something to staunch the bleeding. Luckily enough, she finds a decently clean flannel shirt wadded up at the bottom, and she cinches it tight around the leg, gritting her teeth against the pain. What she wouldn’t give for some Med-X, but her fool self didn’t think she’d need it.

The climb down is slow as hell, slipping off the tin roof, landing too hard on the bum leg that just barely manages to hold her weight. She limps down one of the remaining ramps step by agonizing step, clinging to the handrail, breath coming ragged and harsh. Every footfall sends a jolt of pain up her thigh, and by the time she reaches bottom, she’s shaking, breathing raggedly, and dizzy as all hell.

It’s sheer stubbornness that drives her to limp to the little scooped-out den the matriarch made and claim her hard-won prize-- the two hefty eggs she can cram into her ragged pack, not to mention a fuckin’ mini nuke the mama was sittin’ on and a machine gun. She takes the nuke, but leaves the gun, and then she's set to limp back to Sloan, shotgun tucked into the crook of her arm, just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> another installment in the thrilling saga of the Wasteland's trashiest cowboy lesbian. this one ran kind of long, so i figured i'd split it into chapters. hope you enjoy!


End file.
